


Oblivion

by letsgobacktoMidnight



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Modern AU, One Shot, Oni Genji, SYMMENJI, Satya is tired of Genji's ghost shenanigans, spicy scenes but nothing explicate, spooky times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-27 18:04:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12587560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letsgobacktoMidnight/pseuds/letsgobacktoMidnight
Summary: When she finishes her meal, she begins to work at the same table. Sketching out designs on blueprints for her work, she’s engrossed to the point that the flames upon the candles dying out in a quick breath nearly misses her notice.





	Oblivion

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to finish this one shot on Halloween so please forgive me if it appears rushed, it got away from me. There's no where near enough content for Symmenji and they're just so lovely together!

Everything is new, and sometimes, it makes her tremble and seek out solace in a blanket and headphones playing soft music. The house is too big for its cheap price, but Satya found very little wrongs within its walls. No disabled pipes or gaping holes. It’s a dying color of green, unattractive with dark spaces and unclean corners, but she is never one to falter. The outside is nearly immaculate with a small front porch. A dirt garden waits to be filled with blooming flowers and one single slab of sidewalk leads to the gray door.

It doesn’t feel like home, and her new place of work with strangers along with the fresh town is frightening. She is an outlier, taken away from what she’s known, but she hasn’t succeed this far just to weaken to a dreary loneliness.

The kitchen is complete, a blinding white room with only that color staining every surface and appliance. She brought candles to the lone table to brighten up the air with sea salt and an ocean breeze. It helps as she settles down with a microwaved meal as she is still unable to find time to cook for herself while getting the house in order. Two weeks, and she still hasn’t been satisfied enough to begin accepting it as her home.

When she finishes her meal, she begins to work at the same table. Sketching out designs on blueprints for her work, she’s engrossed to the point that the flames upon the candles dying out in a quick breath nearly misses her notice.

Lifting her head at the sudden goosebumps rising along her arms, the baby blue candles now cool in the small pool of wax they’ve accumulated. After a moment of silent debate, Satya stands to retrieve the matches still resting on the kitchen counter. It’s only a moment, but when she turns back around, the flames are glowing once again.

Satya stills, brow crunched in confusion. Recalling the black ropes letting off a swirling line of smoke is crystallized in her mind. There is no doubt that the flames were extinguished before she grabbed the match box.

Setting the matches away, she goes back to the candles, looking to them with a tired daze.

“Oh my,” she breathes to herself, rubbing her temple in defeat. How can she be useful when it’s too late for her to even think straight?

In a growl of wind, booming from inside her eardrums, the flames die. Her hair falls over her shoulder, a few strands touching her lips as she staggers backwards. Clutching her heart as it excels through the roof, she begins focusing on her belly breathing.

Hours of new work, adjusting and trying to meet deadlines are taking a toll on her mind. It is the only rational thing her mind conjures. The sudden gush of wind will be sought out in the morning, perhaps the back door is loose or a window is open, but she will figure it out.

Now, she stumbles to her headset, and sets the playlist to the music that will calm her down. A soft brown blanket already waits on the couch in the living room, and trembling fingers wraps it around her shoulders.

It takes half an hour for the tension to be released from her shoulders and lungs, but she finally breathes easily. Switching the lights off as she heads up the stairs to her bedroom, she distinctly hears footsteps padding after her, but she dismisses it as the old house settling in.

When she finally slips under the covers, goosebumps crawl over her skin once again. She rests with the thought of someone watching her, but she doesn’t feel the heavy thought of fear.

The next few weeks happen in rapid succession, but she doesn’t have time to find reason behinds the things she cannot explain.

After working out a set of blueprints for an entire night, the next day she finds them on the counter next to her breakfast. Cupboards will be hanging open, the dishes will be left out, reminding her of the food she hasn’t eaten yet. Twice her blanket is suddenly within her grasp when she feels herself being overwhelmed and she never fears of losing it. Goosebumps follow her from the moment she enters through the door to the time she’s leaving for work in the morning. Once she saw an image of a shadow in the reflection of the mirror when she was doing her hair but she could never find anything behind her. There are cold spots in the house, but they seem to shift daily.

She only begins to dive into the mystery of the house once the rush period of her demanding job is over.

The blue candles have remained unlit since the first incident, but now she’s celebrating. Putting the kitchen to use, she cooks lamb curry with mulligatawny soup. She sings while preparing the meal for one, feeling the air becoming still and quiet around her voice.

When her plate is ready and she sits at the small table in the too white kitchen, her hands do not immediately reach for the eating utensils. Quietly, with her fingers clasped together, she stares at the blue candles sitting across from her, and the match box within reach.

Satya is not one for superstition. Logic and order come only without absurd delusions and daydreams, but she has found very little else within the house in the past month she’s dwelled within its walls.

Tentatively, she takes the match in her hands, flickering it on after a few tries. The flame wavers in her grasp before she sets the candles aflame. Goosebumps rise upon her skin as her lungs hold still. The small fires flicker without care, filling the room with a clean scent.

She breathes out, shaking her head slowly.

“You are scared of nothing,” she murmurs to herself.

The flames die in an audio breath that was not her own.

Scraping the chair against the floor in her haste to getting to her feet, her eyes are only glued to the now dead wax. Her breathing rushes through her lips as she holds one arm in front of her as a shield.

“Who is there,” she breathes out, demanding and terrified. As if she could combat against a force beyond nature itself.

Silence echoes, until goosebumps trail against her neck and a flame combusts upon one candle without her interference. A small gasp escapes her lips at that, but she does not run away just yet.     

Seconds trickle by, and one by one, the remaining candles are relit without a single hand moving a match. She swallows at the display, knowing that her vision isn’t failing her and tries to control her breathing. Minutes pass, and the scent wavers slowly to her senses, but she doesn’t know what to do with her tongue.

Is she to rethink everything she knows?

“Is… is there someone here?” She questions herself as she questions the air. It takes only moments for one flame to flicker out before coming back to life again. She nods, as if it makes sense and composes herself.

Must her own knowledge be turn upside down for something simple unreal?

She reaches forward, grasping the back of the chair to steady herself.

“Are you a… spirit?” Her breath trembles as she speaks. She waits, unable to turn away from the candles.

They do not flicker or move. Heaving her shoulders with an effort to settle herself, she asks again.

Nothing happens.

Furrowing her brow, she purses her lips.

“You don’t get to frighten me and suddenly disappear.”

It’s faint, nearly an echo inside her mind, but sound—laughter brushes against her eardrums. It doesn’t chill her bones or make her soul shiver. Slipping her frown away, she folds her arms, and asks another question.

She receives no more candle flickering that night, but her meal is no longer desirable. Putting away dinner in the fridge, she goes to bed that night with the same goosebumps, and the ghostly laughter echoing in her mind.

The strange things beginning to arise more steadily seems to enjoy messing with her paint. Her own project of brightening the house with eggshell blue is desired, for the nasty dark green will not stand much longer.

A Saturday is spent in dirty clothes, and her hair tied up and away from the mess of the liquid color. Rollers and trays are stained blue as she begins the stain in the living room. It takes much longer than she would like with her constant stopping to fix any bubble or tiny imperfection, but by lunch she’s ready to begin the first coat.

A clatter of bowls hitting the countertop get her to wipe her hands, clean of any drops of paint as she goes to the kitchen. Whoever was playing with her candles last night must think throwing her bowls around will find amusement within her. At least she stops to eat the meal she had intended for last night. It is not as glamorous reheated, but it still tastes wonderful.

When she returns for the first coat of paint, she stalls with the roller in her hand. The blue is inviting, and goosebumps suddenly touch her skin. A wild thought touches the back of her mind, but she finds herself kneeling by the trays of paint. Setting the roller down, her free hand hovers over the paint for a few seconds before gingerly dipping her palm onto the surface of blue.

This is foolish, but she continues on. 

She pulls back, disliking the scrubbing she’ll have to do to clean the paint off her skin later, but the cool texture is fascinating. Looking at the blank wall, she leans forward, pressing her hand against it.

The lines of her palms and fingers break apart the picture of her hand, but the blue against the dark gross green is already an improvement. A smile manifests itself on her lips as she stares at it for a few beats longer.

A few inches beside her hand print, blue paint tugs away from her design and spreads against the wall. She starts, pulling away before realizing the new paint splatter is vaguely human.

If not for the claws on the fingertips.

Her breath slows, and her clean hand touches her chest but she doesn’t look away from the hand print. Larger than hers, and sharper too, she leans forward. A breath touches a loose strand of hair resting against her cheek, but she doesn’t restrain herself from outlining the mysterious hand.

Inhaling with a sudden idea, she pushes the tray of paint against the wall, before dipping her finger into the blue. It takes several moments, but she manages to scrawl out ‘ _ Satya _ ’ upon the ugly green of the wall.

Waiting is agonizing, and she almost rebukes whoever is toying with her before the paint in her name bleeds downwards. Slowly, letters form, thin and scraggly but legible.

“Genji?”

Another breath touches her cheek as a wave of goosebumps dance along her skin.

“Genji.” She says again, moving it on her tongue.

It takes a few days after the house is settled into a soft blue shade, but glimpses of a dark form begins to occur consistently. In the bathroom mirror, a lock of her long hair is tugged gentle when putting on makeup and her quiet rebuking will follow a dim shadow just behind her. A wall length mirror in her bedroom will be visited by a vaguely human body when she is fixing her skirt or insuring there are no mistakes in her hair-do. A tap on the glass will follow in a happy note when she asks the air how she looks today.

Whatever keeps the house from feeling bare and isolated is playful. Soft hair tugs will follow after her chastising the empty space. If she strains her ears hard enough, laughter will follow her vengeful murmurings against co-workers who have made a grave error in the design plan. After she finds her blueprints removed from their destined station, she’ll send a sharp warning to not do that again and a bowl along with an ice cream carton will be left out on the counter afterwards.

But she never fully sees him until one late night.

Work demands her until well after hours, and she only arrives home after another conversation with a confused work friend about how to best proceed forward. Midnight glows on the oven clock when she pulls her high heels off and rubbs her feet while waiting for the microwave to beep. A gentle tug on her hair made her lips tug into a tired smile before an apologetic murmur waveres from her mouth.

Her consolation is tomorrow being Saturday, she’ll have opportunities to make the house less ugly. Most of the painting is complete but she wishes to add a softer blue to her bedroom walls and perhaps a few splashes of paint to the bathroom as well.

She eats her food without tasting it, and ascends to the bathroom to rid herself of dirt and grime. Hardly ever does she slip under the covers without cleaning herself first, rest will have to wait.

A sheer, ocean green curtain acts as a divider from the bathtub to the rest of the bathroom. After taking her time to slowly work the tense knots from her body and to scrub her skin and hair clean, she feels goosebumps rise on her skin even through the steam of the hot water.

In a slow motion, she moves her head from under the water, letting the spray rush down her back. The curtain keeps water from splashing onto the dry pad just on the floor, but the bright bathroom light casts a shadow.

It shifts into a humanoid shape.

The water continues to heat her back as she stares, lips parting in silent awe. Blurry edges of a distorted shapes on the face show to be more than a mortal, perhaps horns or fangs. She is only sure when a hand lifts up, claws extending to the curtain.

The steam files into her lungs when she breathes deeply, steady as she raises her own hand. The shadow slows, hesitates, before the curtain moves under the clawed outline. It does not move further.

Her heartbeat is quiet, calm. Water droplets fall off her elbow as she presses wrinkled fingertips to the fabric of the curtain. A solid surface pushes back against her touch, larger and nearly consuming her entire hand in the palm, but the shadow’s claws only curl slightly, as if wanting to clutch her hand.

“Genji,” she breathes. The shadow’s head doesn’t move, but she knows who she speaks too.

They stand, beyond time, still and steady. She can hear his breaths through the water droplets and feel the cool touch from the curtain. It is concrete. The moment of real life and ideas that she never thought of before.

There is no rational explanation for what her hand presses against, no real answer to the shadow’s claws and still form, but she still wants to understand. She wants to know him. 

She only turns away to shut the water off once it begins chilling her skin. When she turns back, he is gone. The curtain is pulled away without fear, and she dries herself with a heavy heart. Emotions, clashing and confusing, lace through her ribs as she dresses and lays under the covers. Sleep evades her even in her fatigue state, lost in thought.

This house has become much more than a home.

Research follows after her real first encounter besides through little hair tugs and quiet breaths against her cheeks. She asks questions to him, about him, but he can never give a real answer. When she strays into talk about a priest or a medium the candles will snuff out in an angry huff and she gives up the notion of any outside help that wouldn’t want to remove the spirit within the house.

Although, a more proper word would be demon, but it doesn’t align with his actions. Genji… that name he wants her to call him, doesn’t want to harm her. She trusts this.

Internet searches reveal little to nothing about the house itself. It is old, very old, and has been through remodeling but the core of it has been standing for nearly centuries. Previous owners only whisper about the strange and frightening things that happened to their family. The strange shadows and a monster straight from hell appearing on dark nights just in their field of vision is what eventually ran them off.

They talk about a demon, but she only knows Genji.

She comes home one night, trying to keep the bad day at work there instead of where she lives. Anger and frustration makes her burn her finger during dinner, and she spends the night mostly on the couch, listening to music and trying to relax her breathing.

It’s a soft presence, but she can feel rhythmic breathing against her cheek. Her hair is tied back, but the quiet space is dwelled in by two beings, she knows this.

“Genji…”

She takes off her headset, and listens closely. The isolation that was first carried within her when she arrived is lost, and fear is replaced with a steady embrace.

“Thank you.”

Energy stirs beside her and within her, reassuring. 

Satya retires for the night, losing the calming breaths and the presence of him. With a soft nightgown on as she nestles in the center of her bed, her thoughts dance vividly before letting her close her eyes.

A nightmare wakes her. Blood was spilling from her chest, like a river flowing as it painted the walls a bright scarlet. She couldn’t stop it, but only tried to fight the ocean of red as it slowly devoured her.

Sitting up in the dark, her clock reads 3 AM. Her heart pounds against her ribcage, a drum she wishes to settle down as her breathing rakes through her throat. A simple dream, nothing more, she repeats to herself. Nothing more.

The shadows in the corner of her room stirs. A sliver of light slips through a crack in the curtains, but it illuminates the slight image of a person. A man.

Her hair falls against her shoulders before she brushes it back. Straightening and pressing her spine to the headboard, she listens to the darkness. Any sign of the shadow being the one she knows is waited for, but she clutches a hand to her chest. Breathless, her heart continues to hit against her sternum.

The shadow moves, illuminating a dark form with red horns decorating the face of ghostly white skin. Two curved horns jut upwards as another set curve downwards along his jawline. Fangs keep his lips apart as demonic irises latch onto her being.

Her lungs still as a clawed hand reaches a corner of the bed. Dark clothing shrouds the demon as he approaches, moving silently as he climbs on top of the sheets and directly to her waiting form. She finds her throat close with the unknown, but keeps her eyes upon the man as she kicks the blanket from her feet.

The demon is close enough that she hears the soft breaths that have peppered her home since she first find him out. Cold fingers wrap around her ankle, tugging himself closer. A palm trails along her leg, lifting from her thigh to press against the headboard beside her head. The decorated chest of black armor and red accents hover above her as she takes in the face she has only glimpsed in mirrors and in the corner of her eyes. Chills seep onto her skin, raising goosebumps at the powerful energy just inches from her. The demonic face looks into her eyes, as if testing her soul. Still and waiting, the demon lets her stare as a flitted thought crosses her mind of the dark beauty so close.

His lips part as one of his hands hover, close to her cheek but unwilling to close the space.  

“Satya,” a whisper of the night and deep tones move through her, and she finds her hand raising to him. He watches her fingers, but doesn’t flinch away when she touches his cheek. Her name spoken on his lips moves her heartbeat to a tempo above that of fear.

This is the spirit that has been keeping her house from solitude.

“Genji,” she murmurs, letting go of what she has known and decides to believe in this reality as real. Her index finger trails a line from the cool surface of unholy skin to the black, unruly hair. Slipping her fingers around his skull, she secures him in her grasp as he still hovers above her. Any moment, he could slip from her hands. He can become nothing more than a dark mist falling between her fingertips. 

“You’re scared.” The dark voice states as his claw touches her collarbone, trailing against her neck for a moment of blissfully cool contact.

“No,” she says, sure. “I’m not.”

The coolness against her hand, and the soft texture of his hair is otherworldly. A being that exists for chaos and destruction has appeared before her, calming even with the twisted features. She breathes slowly, in line with his own cold lungs.

“I don’t want you to be.” He speaks, ghosting his palm over the line of her arm. Sharp talons follow carefully along the lines of her throat before rubbing against her jaw. Smooth and foreign, his irises glow a blood red as he leans closer. Shadows and darkness await her on the tip of his tongue.

Whatever force allows his form to be corporal, and at other times lets him glide through space, almost right there her and slip back into the shadows to move, she is grateful. To feel him, lets her decide in him. Now, she feels the black silk of his lips, teasing her. He keeps himself restraint, still afraid of her rejection. Her hand curls against his hair, gently pressing him closer to where they can taste the moonlight on each other’s cheek. Her lips touch a horn along his jaw, and she does not stop even as he stills.

“Satya,” the ghost moans, finally slipping into her embrace and letting his body be touched by hers. The demon’s kisses are cool and soft, frozen velvet against her face as she keeps tracing her fingers through his hair.

The nightmare is long gone, chased away by the demon.

Morning comes, and chills touch her skin but the demon is not in her bed. Instead, invisible hands pull the covers over her shoulders as a breath touches her cheek. She sighs quietly, recounting the nightmare that slipped into a dream with the demon’s dark touch on her skin.

The blue walls emit soft light, filled with her own design. The quiet steps following her around in the morning stay with her until the night. Shadows play with her hair, before a twisted face appears to touch her lips. The demon says her name with unholy cords, but it is heavenly in his voice.

This house has become much more than a home.

**Author's Note:**

> Please R&R! It helps me out so much!


End file.
